


Sexual Frustration

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John is feeling neglected because of The Work, M/M, Porn, Possessive!Sherlock, Semi-Public Sex, So he offers up a challenge, and Sherlock takes it, but with feels, with results I think everyone can be on board with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 18:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You," Sherlock said very quietly, "have a 15 minute head start to get home, strip, and get in my bed. If I catch you before you make it back to the flat, I will fuck you where I find you regardless of who is watching." His hand tightened, fingers threatening bruises. "Either way, I am going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk for <i>three</i> days."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sexual Frustration

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> This was a fill on the kink meme and I was asked to post it on AO3 for easier tracking.

John Watson considered himself to be a fairly patient man, especially when it came to his lover. He knew how much Sherlock loved The Work, and when they had crossed the line from friends to more he'd resolved to come between them as little as possible. After all, Sherlock wouldn't be _Sherlock_ if he couldn't solve cases.

But it had been six weeks. Six weeks of case after case, like the criminals of London had collectively decided that cockblocking John Watson was a good old time to needed to be had by all. Six weeks of Sherlock pushing himself to the limit, only eating when forced to and only sleeping when his body couldn't take anymore and he collapsed - usually wherever he was standing. Six weeks of watching that lovely arse bent over all manner of things and knowing that the slightest advance would be soundly rebuffed.

In light of the fact that no one from Scotland Yard was watching, John couldn't resist sliding the palm of his hand over Sherlock's behind. He positioned himself so that no one would see if they did happen to look and he touched. You could even say he groped. Because fuck it, it had been six weeks and John was patient but he had a limit.

"John," Sherlock said after about a minute had passed.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Do you mind?"

"Not at all." John smiled as he flexed his fingers. It was only a start, but it was a damn good start as far as he was concerned.

Sherlock sighed and shifted into a squat so that John couldn't reach. "I'm _busy_ , John. I know you can be as unobservant as everyone else, but I would have hoped that even you had noticed the body on the ground not a foot away from your nose."

And that was it: John had had it. He'd reached his limit. Yes he had known that when he and Sherlock began this relationship that there would be times when he'd be pushed aside in favour of The Work. Usually John was okay with that; he'd gone into this with his eyes wide open and he didn't really want Sherlock to change. He had fallen in love with him just the way he was. But there was only so far he could be pushed, so long he could be ignored, and it was just. Too. Much.

"Funny," he said to Sherlock's back. It was a lost cause to try to push his luck, the tensed muscles spoke volumes about stubbornness, and John started to turn away as he muttered under his breath, "That's what Mycroft said until I goaded him into fucking me until I couldn't walk for a day."

There was a moment when the whole world seemed to still, and John actually got about five steps away. He was fully intending on going to fetch himself and maybe Lestrade a cup of hot coffee. But then a hand clamped down on his shoulder and spun him back around. Sherlock was _looming_ over him, there was no other word for it, and for the first time in over a month and a half every inch of that attention was focused entirely on John. 

"You," he said very quietly, "have a 15 minute head start to get home, strip, and get in my bed. If I catch you before you make it back to the flat, I will fuck you where I find you regardless of who is watching." His hand tightened, fingers threatening bruises. "Either way, I am going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk for _three_ days."

John's mouth went dry. It felt like half of the blood in his body abruptly re-routed, draining down into his lower half. He opened his mouth to reply and nothing came out except for a squeak.

"14 minutes and 37 seconds," Sherlock said, and then he let go.

"Oi," Lestrade called out at the same time. "Sherlock, have you found anything yet?" He started to cross the parking lot towards them.

"14 minutes, John. Unless you have an unspoken desire to be fucked in front of Scotland Yard, and I don't really mind if you do, I suggest you hurry," Sherlock murmured, turning to face Lestrade. He stepped forward, smoothly intercepting Lestrade before he could get too close to John, and began to talk in the low, rapid-fire way that meant he was reeling a string of deductions off. Lestrade scrambled for his notebook.

John wanted to stay and listen, but he suspected - no, he _knew_ that Sherlock was completely serious. On legs that felt a little bit weak, he left the crime scene as quickly as possible, not even bothering to respond to Donovan's thinly veiled remark about trouble in paradise. He stepped out onto the road and paused, thinking. The cab ride this morning had taken about 45 minutes, but taking traffic into account it was more like 30. Still, not even Sherlock would be able to catch him if he was in a cab no matter how long it took.

But taking a cab was the easy way out, and he didn't want to do that. The real challenge was whether or not John would be able to out-smart, or at least avoid, Sherlock Holmes until he made it back to the flat. Given Sherlock's intimate knowledge of London, it was unlikely he'd be able to do it. But he was going to give it his best shot.

He played it smart. Instead of going up, he went down. He knew that Sherlock loathed the tube, so he took the nearest entrance to the underground and walked the platform until he came up at the other end. He slipped into shops, particularly those that had a double exit. He felt like his every sense was on high alert, constantly searching the crowds around him for any sign that a consulting detective might be closing in on him even though Sherlock was still at the crime scene. He saw several of Sherlock's homeless network as he walked the pavement, but he was confident that Sherlock wouldn't employ them. Not on this: it was a private game just for the two of them.

His breathing picked up noticeably as the last few seconds of his head start ticked by.

Now, it was really on.

John picked up the pace, not quite jogging across the intersection. He was still a good 30 minutes away from Baker Street by foot, but he'd been around Sherlock long enough to know some shortcuts. He didn't use the ones that necessitated jumping across rooftops, but he cut through alleys and paths and a park, across yards and streets when no cars were coming. The blood was pounding through his body and he felt giddy with success, even threw a jaunty wave to a CCTV camera following his progress.

The arms around his waist came as a complete surprise, a familiar body pressing him roughly up against brick not 10 minutes out from Baker Street. John nearly broke a couple of ribs, his elbow jabbing back automatically, before he realized who it was, his brain catching up with his body, and he went limp with a huff. "You've got to stop popping up out of nowhere," he said. "One of these days I'm going to do something you'll regret."

"I warned you of what would happen if I caught you," said Sherlock, ignoring the threat as cold fingers found their way beneath John's waistband.

"Sherlock! You can't - we're in public," John said, darting a glance towards the pavement that wasn't a dozen feet away. People were walking by, oblivious to what was happening so close. John wanted to keep it that way.

Sherlock ignored him again. He was skilled at undoing John's jeans without looking by now, but he paused before pulling the zip down. He splayed his hand across John's crotch, feeling for the swelling erection he knew was there. And when he found it, he smirked against the back of John's neck. "Feeling neglected?" he inquired, slightly mocking.

"Bastard," John hissed, twisting against the hand that held his wrists. He could've broken free if he'd really wanted to, but there was something deliciously exciting about this. He shivered as Sherlock's free hand pushed the hem of his jumper up until his nipples were pressed against the cold wall. He was hardening fast now, six week's worth of unsatisfying wanks and desire coursing through him.

"Not even any underwear," Sherlock mused, finally tugging the zip down. John's cock popped out, sticky and gleaming with pre-come, and John bit his lip savagely. He wanted Sherlock to touch him, but of course the infuriating man just had to be contrary: he let John's jeans fall to the ground and pulled his hand back out of sight.

The material of Sherlock's coat brushed against his bare arse as Sherlock rummaged around. Then there was a familiar pop-and-hiss and cool, slimy fingers were probing between his buttocks. John sucked in a sharp breath and squirmed. "I can't believe you keep lube in your coat."

"Never know when you meet have need of it," Sherlock said, and now he sounded unmistakably smug as he pressed one long finger inside of John. He was perfunctory and short at this, the opposite of how Sherlock usually acted: he liked fingering John until he was sobbing and begging for it, using three or four fingers and lots of lube until he could press inside with barely any effort. 

"Sherlock," John said.

"Shh." Sherlock removed his finger and unzipped his own trousers. There was the unmistakable sound of him slicking up his cock. John's nails dug into his palms. Sherlock said, "You want me to fuck you, don't you? Want it hard and rough and fast, and you'll remember, John."

"Fuck!" John couldn't help swearing at the first push, that initial pop past the first ring that actually hurt. He pressed his cheek hard against the wall, trading pain for pain as Sherlock mercilessly kept pressing, not stopping until he bottomed out. 

There was no time to get used to it, either. Sherlock set a punishing rhythm, one hand still clutching John's wrists and the other gripping his hip. His shaft was being rubbed against the wall with every thrust, and it should have hurt but it didn't. The pain from being fucked so hard never disappeared entirely, but it was being overwritten with pleasure that made him burn from the inside out.

He spread his thighs wider, as wide as he could with his jeans still around his ankles, and tried to keep his moans quiet. He was going to come fast and he knew it. He was wound up, too close, and his breathing was punching out of his chest and his mind was blurring over. He tugged at the hold Sherlock had on his wrists. If he could touch himself, it would all be over.

"No," Sherlock said, sounding nearly as wrecked as John felt. "No, John. You come from my cock or not at all."

The sound of that sinfully deep voice whispering in his ear, combined with a precise thrust just right against his sweet spot, was enough to make John tip over the edge. His legs trembled as he spurted against the wall, biting his lip until it bled to keep from crying out. Hot pain throbbed from the grip on his hip as Sherlock grunted once behind him and pressed close, his orgasm nearly silent.

Their combined breathing filled the alley, heavy and gasping. John leaned his head against the wall and tried to collect his thoughts. They would need to have a chat, he knew, about this, about Sherlock's ignoring everything but The Work for too long a period of time, but right then the only thing he felt capable of was staying exactly where he was. Sherlock was warm against him, his coat sheltering the two of them from sight.

Finally, though, Sherlock released John's wrists and pulled out. "The killer was the husband."

"All that and you still managed to solve the case?" John didn't know why he bothered to be surprised. 

"Of course. It was obvious." Sherlock stepped back just far enough for John to turn. There was a predatory look in those verdigris eyes. The chill running down John's spine had little to do with the cold wall he found himself being pressed against when Sherlock kissed him, deeply and devouring, and murmured, "Can you walk?"

"I. Yes," John said, licking his lips. 

Sherlock smirked. "Can you run? Because I recall promising to fuck you so hard you wouldn't be able to walk for three days."

He thought about that as he reached down and grabbed his jeans, suppressing a wince. Yeah, that burned. Like, a lot. Walking would probably be harder than he'd thought. He straightened up carefully and closed his jeans, ignoring the feeling of lube and come trickling out of him. "We're 10 minutes out from Baker Street."

"You've got 5."

John ran.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/).


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